


not for me (not if it's you)

by eukaryidiot



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Comfort, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Recovery, Short One Shot, Sickfic, Surgery, Trans Character, Trans Dadsona (Dream Daddy), Trans Male Character, can you tell i wrote this to cope, dads being dads!, hurt is like barely there but like, i wrote the first draft of this in FULL at 5am shortly after finishing damien's route, it's implied that the reader wants top surgery, kind of??????, top surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23799571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eukaryidiot/pseuds/eukaryidiot
Summary: he can't name it, but something in the way you sound it out is healing. day-mee-yan. damien damien damien. like an incantation. like catharsis. // you help damien as he recovers from top surgery.
Relationships: Damien Bloodmarch/Dadsona, Damien Bloodmarch/Reader, Lucien Bloodmarch & Dadsona
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91





	not for me (not if it's you)

you always say his full name. damien. just like that. you’d never really picked up on the same monikers as the other residents of the cul-de-sac, never even dropped the occasional “dames”.

he can't name it, but something in the way you sound it out is healing. day-mee-yan. damien damien damien. like an incantation. like catharsis.

it hadn’t come without cost, that name. metaphorically and literally. there’d been a fee to get it changed on his driver’s id, his state id, his passport. someday, there would be a fee to get it on his birth certificate. after a certain amount of paydays and grocery coupons and promotions, someday it would be corrected. but that is something he'll have to brush aside and stow in the back of his mind, just for now.

for him, top surgery is vital. it means taking back a body that was once his, that will be his again when all this is over. he tells you his operation date in springtime in your yard at the same tree he kissed you under the year before, the one you’ve been tending to like a honeybee ever since amanda left house. he peppers the news with admonishments, tells you not to worry, he’s been through worse. but you won’t have it.

“i’ll be your nurse,” you say, the corners of your smile upturned like questions, like would-you-just-let-me-take-care-of-yous.

damien toys with the cuffs of his shirt.

“i’ll be a loathsome patient.”

“that's okay.”

for weeks, you help him out of bed, make him blueberry pancakes in the mornings. sometimes you watch him paint in the garden while you wash the dishes, thinking (wrongly) he doesn’t know when you’re looking. he can’t lift his arms too high without feeling a pain where his stitches are, which is one of the only things keeping him from bending that rule (he doesn’t terribly care how wide the scars come out, just wants them to finally be scars), so you’ve taken up the mantle of reaching for the cinnamon in the spice shelf and scrubbing his arms and shoulders with a damp towel when he needs to bathe. at night, you brush the tangles out of his hair, keep it smelling of lavender and rosemary. you’ve taken to sleeping upright in bed with him as a show of solidarity and as practice for the future; you will be going through the same ordeal soon, once you get that letter of recommendation from your therapist.

after about a month, damien shakes off his initial constant fatigue. he can eat on his own, but sometimes he still lets you feed him because he likes how much you enjoy doting. occasionally the two of you go as far as the coffee spoon together, and you point out the banana bread, and he laughs at the name and finishes his slice to the last crumb.

at night, damien wonders what it will be like when it’s your turn. he thinks of you coming home from work with your drooping eyelids and disheveled hair and decides he will make you eat more, bathe longer. he will treat you to a nice apple charlotte frequently, as soon as he learns how to make it. he’ll fill a bucket with warm water and all the most delightful herbs and oils he can think of, soak it with a towel, douse your skin. he would have you smelling of rosewater every night then and thereafter.

but for now, you’re the one who does the coaxing out of bed for dinner. on sunday, you make salmon filet and warm jasmine rice; food that tastes just-made, that you can still feel steaming in the plate. afterwards, you put lucien to bed and look like you belong there, like you were meant to lean on that doorframe and live in this house and care for his son.

damien promptly asks if he can paint you in the living room, but it’s so late and he is so exhausted that he only finishes your left eye and a good portion of your nose. _portraits require time and effort_ , is how he excuses himself. _especially when they’re of you_ , is what he leaves out. you get him to paint your nails instead—black, to match his.

eventually you no longer need to stay with him for whole days, which is fine, he supposes. damien is used to being alone, but he desires it less the longer he lives with you, which is oddly comforting to him.

if this whole process is reparation for his body, then you are a funny little handyman with a sweet smile. you’re a carpenter or a woodworker smoothing out the chips he can’t carve away on his own. damien wishes he could hold your body in his new one and cradle it ‘til yours is new too. it wouldn’t be difficult. you are easy to hold, easy to care for, easy to love.

often, you’re exhausted. or that’s how you seem. you finish dinner and go to bed at eight. it used to take you upwards of twenty minutes to fall asleep sitting up, he remembers, but tonight you knock out in no time flat.

in the dark he sounds out your name, your whole name, syllable by syllable, letter by letter. holds it in his mouth. whispers it to the bedroom window. he thinks of how tomorrow you’ll say _good morning damien_ and then _i missed you at work today damien_ and thereafter _damien, i love you, damien, damien, damien._

your hair is messy. your jeans are still on. you smell like salmon and rice and smile in your slumber. damien mentally outlines a plan to finish your portrait by wednesday, and falls asleep staring at your face.


End file.
